


Our First Child

by AnyaAndApples, BashfulInfidel



Series: Vignettes [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-07-19 13:16:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 14,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7362841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnyaAndApples/pseuds/AnyaAndApples, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BashfulInfidel/pseuds/BashfulInfidel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinky drabbles.</p>
<p>There is no mpreg in here, I swear to you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grooming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnyaAndApples](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnyaAndApples/gifts).



> For Apples, who is funny and amazing.

Hanzo’s hands are perfectly steady as they handle the small scissors. He gathers a thatch of hair between his index and middle fingers, pulling it straight and briefly considering its length before he snips across it and promptly dusts the hair off Jesse’s chest onto the floor, mindful of the irritation it would cause were it to accumulate on bare skin.

“You are certain you do not want it clean-shaven once again?” he asks off-handedly as he draws back to scrutinise his handiwork.

“Thought we both agreed I looked naked without it the last time,” Jesse murmurs, lifting his chin and turning his head to the side to grant him a better angle. “Did you like it more than you let on?” he teases.

Hanzo snorts before selecting a razor from the rack and leaning in to work on the finer hairs bleeding into Jesse’s neck. Jesse can feel the warmth radiating from his skin at this distance, can almost hear his languid, strong heartbeat. His breath is cool and smells of peppermint and tea as he exhales softly, gliding the blade down Jesse’s neck, the strokes smooth and gentle and a little wet. They don’t do this very often – their schedules are pressing enough when regular, and with the number of urgencies and anomalies they are called in to handle, most of their nights together, when they can be afforded, are spent either in shared slumber or hasty-sweaty-desperate lovemaking – and so Jesse relishes the attentiveness and intimacy.

“I am not the shallow one in this relationship,” Hanzo quips, and how Jesse’s heart swells to hear that rare, prized acknowledgement, “and though I rather enjoyed the absence of rash in conspicuous patches on my skin, I must admit you have a roguish charm like this as well.” He does not meet Jesse’s eyes, no doubt to avoid the laughter he would find there, and instead employs a washcloth to intently wipe down Jesse’s neck and face. When he has finished, he combs long, elegant fingers through Jesse’s beard and across his throat, the calluses catching on sensitive skin, Jesse’s breath catching in turn.

“There,” Hanzo nods, eyes raking over his face and chest once more, before jerking his head at the mirror. “Look for yourself.” He briskly begins cleaning the equipment, eyes fixed determinedly on the running water. Jesse gives him his moment and studies his reflection. He watches Hanzo as he meticulously soaps his hands at the washbasin. He turns around and wraps his arms around Hanzo’s waist, presses himself against that hard, sinewy back, nuzzles at his nape.

“Oh darlin’,” he mumbles, “You really know how to flatter an old man.”


	2. Bathing

“Are you purring?” Jesse asks, pausing his rhythmic kneading of Hanzo’s scalp, tangling his fingers affectionately through the shoulder-length satin of his hair.

“Don’t be daft,” comes the response, but it is sleepy and throaty and luxuriating, and Hanzo’s eyes are still closed in bliss, his head still tipped back towards Jesse. The clumps of lather poofing up his hair do not help his endeavour for credibility. 

Jesse chuckles affectionately and continues to rub at his scalp, occasionally scratching where Hanzo makes an appreciative noise, tugging gently at his locks as he finishes off. With excruciating care, he piles up the voluminous mass of hair and froth into a stylish turban on Hanzo’s head, smirking at his creation. Hanzo clicks his tongue in annoyance and digs his elbow into Jesse’s calf, and after a moment or two of sharp pain (worth it), Jesse laughs and relents. He reaches for the showerhead and begins rinsing out the suds with a steady, lukewarm stream of water, running his hands through the softened hair as it spills across Hanzo’s broad, shapely shoulders like ink. He watches the water sluice its way across the hills and vales of the back he has memorised with his fingertips and palm and lips and tongue; the permanent ridges of scarred, pink skin he has traced endlessly in the darkest hours of the night; over the sharp crests of strong hips and the sweet dimples above his delicious ass, down his crack and into hot, secret places…

“Jesse,” Hanzo’s voice, dry and amused, drags him out of his reverie.

“Mm?”

“Perhaps you would consider moving onto my body now,” he suggests mildly. “Seeing as I’ve had water running down my face for a solid five minutes, and if I’m to extract the filth from the rat’s nest of your hair before the meeting, it would be best to start soon.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Jesse soothes, bending down to kiss the top of his head. “Turn around for me and I’ll get to it.”

Hanzo shifts, and Jesse is arrested for the hundredth time by the sight of Hanzo’s gloriously naked torso, the chiselled muscles of his chest and abdomen, water beaded across his smooth skin and rolling lazily between its valleys, following the soft, dark trail of hair down his concave stomach and into the hair at his groin, where his beautiful cock hangs smooth and limp and sated. Jesse feels the familiar heat pool in his stomach, drawing the moisture out of his throat, and when a hand brushes softly at his jaw and a fond, playful eyebrow gestures at the bar of soap lying untouched by his side, he huffs and appeases himself with the knowledge that a long night of tender loving lies ahead.


	3. Body Worship

Hanzo has become terribly partial to the colour red as of late.

Red is the flush that blooms under the ruddy skin of Jesse’s chest and bleeds up his collarbones, curls up his neck and nestles in his ears, dusts across his cheeks as Hanzo smooths his palm down his sides, holding his chin firmly in place for a long and slow and dizzying kiss. Hanzo follows its trail with his nose and lips, pecking the apple of his neck and licking at the shell of his ear, suckling at its fleshy lobe until he can feel Jesse’s soft pants against his face.

Red is the protest of Jesse’s lips, plumped and sore and all but bitten to the blood, inspiring a surge of visceral hunger and something terribly, dangerously predatory in Hanzo. He soothes the inflamed flesh with gentle licks in between the sharp nips, draws them in to suck the air out of Jesse’s mouth, rubs his thumb at the joint between neck and shoulder in silent apology.

Red is the brilliant shade of Jesse's serape, thrown across the hotel bed and Jesse spread across it languidly, his hat mercifully off and his hair a wild mess, his shirt half unbuttoned to reveal the swell of his breast, warm skin wrapped around unyielding muscle and dusted with fur. Hanzo removes the shirt altogether, drinks in the sight of that powerful torso. He leans in and mouths at a nipple, laving at it with the flat of his tongue before flicking it with the tip, worrying it gently between his teeth. He idles with a free hand at the other one, occasionally pulling at it, rolling it between his fingers. Here, he can hear Jesse’s heartbeat as it pounds hard and heavy, rising steadily to a crescendo, punctuated by his heavy sighs and sharp inhales. He sucks at the nipple long enough to draw out a tortured, rumbling groan from Jesse, then abruptly blows across the abused skin to hear Jesse’s weak, whimpering protest.

Red is the blushing, drooling tip of Jesse’s cock, fat and needy and insistent against his own. Hanzo smiles and teases his fingertips up Jesse’s inner thigh, rakes them through the fur at his groin, strokes firmly across his lower abdomen, denying it the attention it craves. He drops open-mouthed kisses along the crests and troughs of Jesse’s ribs, the firm plateau of his stomach. He dips his tongue into his navel, smells the concentrated raw masculine scent of Jesse there and basks in it, his hands kneading at Jesse’s arms, up and down the contrasting sensations of cool metal and warm muscle, fully aware of his frustration at the denial and the conflicting desire to melt into the reverent, indulgent worship of his body, hidden always behind so many layers and the thick cloistering armour of cigar smoke and a crude personality.

He feels the moment when Jesse submits to the latter: his back relaxes against the covers, his eyes slide shut, his corded arms go loose and lax against Hanzo’s caresses. Jesse’s hips have begun a slow, involuntary rolling motion against the joint between Hanzo’s thigh and groin, and a pool of slick has gathered there from his cock, leaking still, no doubt aching for release. Hanzo rewards him with his mouth, taking his generous length in in one long, wet slide, one hand pressing his hips down firmly and the other teasing his heavy balls, his perineum, pressing up against his cock-root.

“Fuck,” Jesse rasps. His hips push against Hanzo’s hand.

“Don’t move,” Hanzo murmurs, slipping off his cock. He nuzzles at his straining sac and presses his thumb into his slit, rubbing the thickened pad of skin at his fingertip against the precum beaded there. 

"Can’t,” Jesse moans, surging against the sensation, “I have to.”

“If you move I will stop,” Hanzo warns, before popping the head back into his mouth, hot and slippery, rubbing his palate against the foreskin, taking it down to the root and pulsating his throat around its girth.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Jesse gasps, “Darling, I’m—” Coming, he’s coming, his orgasm is being wrenched out of him, suctioned from his balls and through his cock and straight into Hanzo’s greedy mouth, warm and musky and bittersweet. Hanzo moans around it, swallows wantonly, and when Jesse is finished and looks ready to spout a litany of apologies for what he no doubt considers the abuse of a privilege, Hanzo licks at the slit again, eager to swallow the last of his cum, and he spurts weakly once more. “Ah,” he’s moaning, helpless and oversensitive, and Hanzo feels a tremendous rush of affection for this man, this man who he has given his heart to and who has given him the world in return, this man who quivers even now as Hanzo gentles him down from the high, kisses the jut of his ankle, the bend of his knee, the crook of his elbow, that lovely infuriating mouth.

“Good?” he asks a few minutes later, his hand idling through the hair of Jesse’s abdomen, Jesse himself lost in a stupor, gazing sightlessly at the ceiling.

“Are you kiddin’,” Jesse deadpans. He torques them over and wedges a thigh between Hanzo’s leg, presses it knowingly against Hanzo’s own cock, painfully hard and wanting. He smirks. “See how you like it, yeah?”


	4. Bondage, Praise

It’s the third time they’re doing this, and the sight of his lover trussed up and shamelessly on display is just as striking as the first. They’re keeping it simple, as Hanzo is still far too guarded to try anything more compromising than binding his hands and legs (though he never fails to immediately straighten up at the barest hint of interest in something more significant).

Soft, thick rope wraps around his long arms, imitating the coil of the dragon on his left, tying off into a modest knot that joins his wrists to the bedrail. The peacock blue fibres are sparsely entwined with gold cord, drawing out the honeyed tones of his skin, embellishing him for Jesse’s praise and pleasure. His legs are spread open, hips twisted provocatively upwards, and though Jesse has left them free to move, they are encased in the same rope arranged into an intricate network of crisscrosses and bows in the likeness of shoelaces. It snakes up from the graceful, arching heels of his prosthetics to the sinew of his thighs, complementing the gleaming alloy and biting into tender skin, and between the erotic ropework and the elaborate yukata splayed open behind him and the rising flush to his cheeks, Hanzo is ruinously beautiful, and he knows none of it.

Well, Jesse is about to let him hear it.

Jesse thanks whatever god will listen for this sight that is his alone, this sight that Hanzo offers up to him so tentatively and yet so lustfully, this sight that parches his throat and stutters his heart. He skims his roughened palm along the rope wrapping Hanzo’s leg, eyes steady and fixed on Hanzo’s own, which have already dilated, amber rims glowing around pupils glazed with desire. His lashes – thick, thick and long and framing his large eyes so sensually – flutter as Jesse leans down to trace his jaw with his lips, as he scrapes the metal of his left arm along a straining thigh and lingers, pressing cold to hot. Hanzo does not blink, though he swallows audibly, subconsciously offering his neck up for Jesse to mark. His tongue peeks out to wet his bottom lip and he keeps his mouth half open, releasing soft, anticipatory breaths as Jesse trails a languorous hand up Hanzo’s cock, already half-hard and eager for the attention.

“You look gorgeous, honey,” Jesse rumbles into his hair. “So prettily dolled up like this, lying there all patient and vulnerable.” He presses a long, sweet kiss onto Hanzo’s lips, delving in hot and deep and passionate, then drawing out again, gentle and slow. Hanzo is breathless, though evidently not from the kiss alone, and he moans softly, arching into Jesse’s embrace. Jesse has to press the heel of his hand firmly against his crotch to stop himself from coming there and then.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he breathes, licking and biting at the skin just below the loops at his wrist, and then, in a more strangled groan, “All for me.” Hanzo gasps at that, drives up urgently, repeatedly, exhaling rapidly through spit-slicked lips, and he’s about to come, Jesse can feel it in the way he tenses, the way his stomach is beginning to convulse, and he wraps a hand around the base of his cock.

“Not yet sweetheart,” he murmurs, hushing Hanzo’s groan of frustration. “Not yet. In a while.”

“No,” Hanzo rasps, “Please, please, I need—”

 “Hold out for me,” Jesse interrupts, tightening his grip. “Okay? For me.”


	5. Marking

The first thing he registers is the distinct lack of the equivalent of a stone furnace half-crushing him to death. He is awake immediately, and his hand darts out to feel about the other three-quarters of the bed ordinarily occupied by his blanket of Jesse before he has even opened his eyes. It’s empty, but the sheets are still warm and rucked up, and he glances at the alcove to see Jesse standing by the window, watching him flail. His eyes are radiant, the sunbeams stealing into the room cradling his face and washing his hazel eyes a transparent grey-green, and his lips, wrapped around his cigar, are soft and smiling.

“Mornin’,” he slurs.

“You are not usually awake at this hour,” Hanzo replies, glancing at the weak orange light distended from the east. “What is the matter?”

“Nusshin, shweefharf,” he says, and he grins and removes the cigar from his mouth at Hanzo’s pointed stare, tapping it on the windowsill and letting the sweet smoke drift outside. “Sun was on my face and I knew you’d be up soon anyway. Also I wanted this,” he explains, twiddling the cigar between his fingers. Despite the open window, their cramped single bedroom is already drenched with the smell of tobacco and sandalwood. Hanzo suspects that it will linger on his clothes and the sheets regardless how many washings he puts them through: like most of Jesse’s leavings, the scent has become a permanent mark of their companionship. It accessorises the coppery trace of blood steeped into the torn-off hem of an old serape, hidden faithfully in the fold of his sleeve; the aroma of strong coffee that dyes the threads of his many scarves with spice and home; the fragrance of almond shampoo that clings to his own hair – though you would not know the original owner makes regular use of it given the tangled mop of carpet shag he currently sports atop his head.

In all fairness, Hanzo has returned the favour in equal measure, if not more amorously, as Jesse’s body will attest. Hanzo’s marks are marks of ownership. His companions are his to aid, his family his to protect, his lover his to cherish. They are not permanent marks, as they require frequent reinvigoration in the form of: overlapping scratches crosshatching the older scabs and scars branded across Jesse’s back; crescent-shaped indentations into broad, solid shoulders; teeth marks and inflamed skin festooning Jesse’s collarbone, on his chest, up the conveniently hidden length of his lean neck; yellowing bruises on his wrists, his forearms, his thighs where Hanzo had held him down in his sex-ridden fervour. Jesse looks as he always should – sated, claimed and undeniably his. 

The thought brings him scourging shame. Jesse has been nothing but accommodating to him. He is as tender and considerate a lover as Hanzo never deserved. How repulsed would he be, were he to know these sickening, predacious, possessive desires consumed Hanzo when they made love?

“The morning chill will get to you. Put on a shirt.” Hanzo stands and briskly begins to rearrange the blankets and mussed bedcovers, fully aware his unclothed body will remain the object of Jesse’s lewd gaze for as long as it remains so. That will have to be rectified. He reaches for a robe from the hooks adorning the bedroom door, and as he ties the sash he offers, “I will begin training shortly. Would you like to join me?”

Jesse considers this carefully. “Will there be breakfast after?”

Hanzo allows himself a smile. “I will prepare pancakes, if you wish.”

“With bananas.”

“Naturally.”

“And chocolate chips.”

“You are pushing your luck.”

Jesse huffs. “I’ll be there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's high ~~noon~~ time that I acknowledge  FabulaRasa, whose writing style I've been ~~stealing~~ drawing most of my own from. The sort of stuff I usually read doesn't translate well into porn, and since she's judiciously advised me to steal from other writers, I've taken the liberty of doing so from her.


	6. Dirty Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the help with writing this, Apples!

They’ve barely passed through the automated doors to Hanzo’s chambers and they are already grinding against each other through their clothes. The meeting had passed by in a blur and neither of them had been able to focus on much besides the other’s safe return from the last operation gone awry. Hanzo has Jesse pressed up against him, his back to Hanzo’s chest, and he ruts lazily against his ass as he slides a hand around to Jesse’s front, rubbing with a firm, flat palm and outstretched fingers across his bulge. Jesse moans softly, pushing up against the hand in slow, abortive thrusts, eyes closed, the fingers of his mechanical arm idling up and down Hanzo’s leg in encouragement.

“You have been like this for some time,” Hanzo murmurs into Jesse’s neck. “You are already this hard and I’ve barely begun. What were you thinking about, during the report?”

Jesse shivers and pushes into his hand. He hums, releasing a heavy sigh. When he opens his mouth to answer, Hanzo slips in two fingers from his free hand and begins thrusting them in and out to the rhythm of his other hand. Jesse’s mouth is salivating profusely and he licks and sucks the fingers eagerly, as though in demonstration.

Hanzo laughs softly. “Were you thinking of my cock in your mouth?” he asks. “You are always so enthusiastic about that. Did you want to get down on your knees underneath the table and attend to me while the meeting proceeded? I could have marked your face with my come and you would have cleaned it up shamelessly.”

He takes in Jesse’s flared nostrils and sharp inhale with fierce satisfaction. “Yes, you would have come in your trousers right there, humping my leg. Is that how you want to release now; is that what has you drooling and needy?”

Jesse’s muffled groan at that is broken and tortured. Hanzo watches spit dribble out of his mouth, down his fingers, no doubt drizzling into his beard. Against his hand he can feel the wet from Jesse’s straining cock. Jesse’s thrusts have become short and desperate, his fingers clenching into the material of the hakama, nails digging into his thigh.

Hanzo nuzzles at Jesse’s nape, pressing kisses down the slope of his shoulder and onto the twin beauty marks on his arm. He frees Jesse’s mouth and trails the sloppy fingers across his lips, down his chin, splays his hand across Jesse’s chest and speaks hotly into his ear. “It is. You like the idea of putting on a show for everyone else. That is why you are drenching yourself even as I speak. If I were to open your pants there would be enough of your slick for me to fuck your thighs. Would you like that? I can bend you over my bed now and take you as hard as you like, make you boneless with pleasure. Tell me that is what you want, Jesse. Tell me how much you want it.”

“Please,” Jesse begs. “Please, Hanzo, baby— _nngh_ ,” he breaks off noisily as Hanzo pops his pants open and pushes his hand in, wrapping and stroking roughly around his dripping cock. The larger man shudders violently as he spurts thick white into his hand, the cum overflowing onto his pants. Hanzo groans, pressing hard into his lover to relieve some of the pressure as he brings Jesse to orgasm, marvelling at the sight of his lover trembling against him, panting for breath.

“My love,” he breathes. “Look at how much, how quickly, you have spent. Is this what being with me does to you?” and then Jesse is turning around and capturing his mouth, kissing him furiously. Jesse is tearing off his hakama and wrapping his hand around Hanzo’s own, fucking Hanzo’s cock with their combined sticky grip, and Hanzo cries out as the ache in his balls is finally released, shooting onto Jesse’s shirtfront.

“We’re a mess,” he grimaces once his breathing has returned to normal.

“We could take it to the shower.” But it is a good two hours before they extricate themselves from the disgusting, tacky embrace to consummate their reunion in the bathroom once more.


	7. Domesticity

“Coffee, darlin’?” Jesse offers from where he is setting out the mugs. “Got a milder roast yesterday,” he explains.

Hanzo takes a moment to answer, poking his head out of a cupboard as he sets down dried cilantro and white pepper onto the kitchen counter. “Yes. Black and—”

“One and a half sugars, gotcha.” He spoons out coffee grounds into the percolator, humming to himself. “You’d think I’d know that by now,” he adds wryly.

“The last time I failed to specify, you oversweetened it,” Hanzo reminds him. He is steadily whisking eggs by the stove, occasionally stopping to add in the complex mix of herbs he favours. “Pass me the salt.”

Jesse obeys, smiling into the toaster as he watches the crusts golden. The coffee pot has begun its steady gurgle, and the scent of sizzling butter greets him from where Hanzo is carefully scrambling the eggs. He’s taken it out specifically for him; Hanzo prefers his meals as free of fat and oil as possible, and his carefully subdued regard nonetheless for Jesse’s own tastes (when he is not scolding him about the nutritional value of his diet, that is) never fails to make his chest melt.

There’s a minute or two of silence as they each see to setting out their breakfast. Warm sunlight is filtering into the kitchen from the portholes on the right wall; Hanzo refuses to draw the blinds on the larger window until the he’s heard the neighbour’s door click shut at seven forty-five. It washes the corkboard a benign orange-yellow, the floating dust granules submerging their kitchen into the ethereal pocket of quiet Sunday mornings, dancing around the tastefully chaotic bundle Hanzo has pulled his hair up into. The shy sunrays stain his black hair charcoal grey and gild the odd silver streaks adorning his nape and temples.

“You forgot your morning kiss,” Hanzo mentions idly, watching Jesse watch him.

“Did not,” Jesse says, and he leans in.

 

* * *

 

_Click. Click. Click._

Jesse gathers up the towel from its corners and funnels it into the dustbin, shaking it free of toenail clippings. He smooths it out onto the bed once more and starts on the other foot.

“What are you doing,” Hanzo says from where he is propped up against a pillow, writing intently into a small, weathered notebook.

“Toes,” Jesse grunts. “You were complainin’ about the scrapes on your legs last night.”

“Mmm.”

“You almost done with your poem?” Jesse asks, smoothing down an odd angle with the nail file. Before they had begun a tentative life together in their tiny hole of an apartment, Jesse would never have thought there would be a point in his life where he would come within ten feet of a nail file (or a proper hairbrush, or Vaseline). Hanzo had trained his scrupulous habits far too deeply into him.

“I am writing another one,” Hanzo answers. He is brushing the base of the pen contemplatively over his bottom lip, oblivious to – or perfectly aware of, at this point – what the sight does to him. “The image I was trying to write into the last one eludes me.”

“We can go see the Shambali temple again after next week’s assignment, if you like.” Jesse dusts the towel off into the bin once more, squinting at the sheets for any stray pieces.

“Perhaps,” Hanzo shrugs noncommittally. He is not too eager to see the omnic there with his brother. “Jesse.”

“Yep.”

“Clip your fingernails as well. My wrist is aching so I will not prepare myself tonight.”

Jesse freezes. He feels his throat go dry. He looks up at Hanzo, whose lips are crooked into a private smile, eyes still running meticulously over his writing. He swallows. How an offhand remark can throw him off like this after a solid two years of dating (and vigorous fucking), he will never understand.

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

 _Click, click_. He gets to work.

 

* * *

 

“Jesse.”

“Mmrf.”

“Where did you leave the toilet scrubber?”

Jesse groans into his pillow. “Behind the bowl.”

Hanzo makes sure to slam down the toilet seat extra hard. Jesse hears him clatter around underneath the flush tank, padding wetly around the floor in rubber slippers.

“It isn’t there,” he calls, his voice muffled behind the bathroom door. Jesse sighs and rolls over, thrusting off his blankets and sitting up groggily. He scratches at his beard and rubs a palm over his face. “Check the cabinet under the sink!”

Hanzo opens the door loudly, glaring at him. “Oh, good. You have awoken. Why would you put the brush in the cabinet? We keep the toilet paper and soap there. Tell me you haven’t lost it.”

“Ah, sorry, wasn’t thinking. I put it out in the balcony to dry, last I remember. Let me go get it for you.”

He returns with the scrubber to see Hanzo drizzling bright green toilet cleaner into the bowl. He has already scoured the tank a sterile white and looks ready to start on the washbasin. The sleeves of the soft, grey, lint-spattered t-shirt he stole from Jesse’s drawer are folded tightly up to his shoulders, the front hanging loosely off his body, stretched at the seams and thinned from wear (much like his temper this morning, it seems).

Jesse quickly steps into the bathroom and hands him the brush, taking the sponge from his hand. “I’ll get the basin. Just let me clean my teeth, hun.” Hanzo snatches the brush and begins scrubbing vigorously.

“If you had woken earlier we would not be in such a hurry now. We are supposed to assemble within the hour and I refuse to leave off cleaning the bathroom for another week. The showerplace is unsightly.”

“Mmm, and who was it that kept me up?”

“That is no excuse, you big lug. The least you can do is keep me entertained.”

Jesse rolls his eyes and spits out a mouthful of toothpaste. “’Least I don’t throw a tantrum because I didn't get my beauty sleep.”

Hanzo pauses. “Oh?” he arches an eyebrow. “Then what are you doing now?”


	8. Breathplay

Jesse has Hanzo pushed up against a door, hair spilling out of its sombre ribbon and over his fingers. They’re both fully dressed in suits, making out sloppily like teenagers, kiss bleeding into kiss, cheeks reddened from the scrape of their beards. Jesse has a hand plunged into Hanzo’s underwear and wrapped around his cock, which is leaking like a faucet, hard and hungry against his own. Hanzo shoves up against him, one hand digging into his arm, the other yanking at his scalp, and when Jesse rubs the pad of his thumb around the spongy head, tracing the wet there with his nail and rubbing it into his foreskin, whispering, “Come, sweetheart,” and tugging at his earlobe with sharp teeth, Hanzo yells and bucks sharply, sinks his teeth down into that lovely bottom lip and comes in his slacks.

Jesse shudders at the sight of his lover debauched and giving himself up completely to pleasure. He kisses him, tender and soft, soothing the indent he’s bitten into his mouth, filled with unbearable affection, spine shaking with the weight of his desire. It takes Hanzo no less than a half minute to recover his breathing, and then he is on his knees, unbuckling Jesse’s belt and shimmying down his underwear and pants. Jesse moans and pulls back, placing a gentle hand on Hanzo’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do that.”

Hanzo frowns. “You have not come yet.”

Jesse huffs. “Babe. This isn’t a favour you have to return. And I can take care of it; being around you is enough to get me off, you know that.”

“You do not wish for me to attend to you.”

“I – no, that isn’t what I said.”

“It is what you want to say,” Hanzo states, and his eyes are clear and unflinching, his voice cool and steady. “It is rare that you allow me to use my hand or mouth on you.” When Jesse remains silent, he continues, tersely, “If what I do for you is not pleasing enough I would rather you let me know than pretend—”

“Hanzo, honey, that isn’t true at all; please, listen to me,” Jesse cuts in. “It’s not your fault, you know there isn’t a thing you do that isn’t perfect, that I don’t want, your everything is,” and he swallows, and stops. “I just, I’m not very – easy, to handle, and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, or…obligated,” he manages, and he feels the familiar burn of humiliation in his stomach, climbing up his chest, threatening to spill out of his mouth as bile.

Hanzo’s brow furrows in confusion. He places his hand on Jesse’s hip, rubs the soft skin there with his thumb, up and down, up and down, maddeningly slow. “You are referring to you size,” he says finally.

“Yes.”

Hanzo nods and looks down at the prominent rise of Jesse’s cock, veinous and an angry purple-red, swollen and insistent. A strange expression crosses his face, and when he looks back at Jesse, his lips are glossy from where he has wet them. “Perhaps you would allow me to show you what I think of it for myself,” he asks, infinitely gentle, and how can Jesse refuse the glaze of his eyes, the soft hopeful curve of his mouth; Jesse would suffer a thousand humiliations before disappointing this man. He nods minutely. “Go for it, darlin’.”

Hanzo strokes his thighs with rough palms, dips his fingers into the crease between leg and crotch, tugs at the curls of hair that bed his cock, which is oozing stupidly, refusing to soften despite the shame of its arousal, the looming threat of rejection. “You are tense,” Hanzo observes. His eyes have not left Jesse’s own. He holds his gaze as he smooths his hand over his muscles and licks a long stripe up his cock, coming away with a sticky string of saliva and pre. “Your cock wants to come. Why are you denying yourself?”

He inches his head closer to Jesse’s cock, breathing down onto it. “Let yourself go in my mouth. Fill my mouth with your thick cock and come into my throat. I want that, will you give me that?”

Jesse groans and pushes his hands into Hanzo’s hair, clutching tightly as Hanzo dips down and takes the whole of him into his mouth in one long slide, all the way down to the root, and he can feel the fluttery softness of his throat where the head is hitting the back, and sweet fucking jesus Hanzo is clenching his fingers into his ass, pushing it inwards, urging Jesse to fuck into that hot wet silk. He can’t stop, it’s been so long since he’s had a mouth around him and Hanzo is sucking at him like the taste of him is all he’s thought about for the month they’ve been apart, rubbing at him with his tongue, and Jesse thrusts forward without thinking, grips Hanzo’s head and takes what he wants because good god there is no hope of resisting, nothing in the world besides the suction of Hanzo mouth, the squelch of his saliva, the light scrape of his teeth.

He comes down that throat pulsating to the drumbeat of his heart, and he comes hard, and when the haze of orgasm has receded he finally realises what he’s done; Hanzo has been choking on his cock, is choking still on the flood of his cum, and god help him he spurts again weakly at the sight of the white spilling out of that slack, reddened mouth, thrusts abortively into the sticky white-coated heat. “Shit, sorry, I’m so sorry,” he gasps, pulling out, leaning down to caress Hanzo’s face, card his fingers through his hair. He’s such a selfish shit. “Hanzo, sweetheart. I should've been more careful, let me—”

Hanzo holds up a hand, coughs and wipes at his mouth before looking up at Jesse. He’s missed a spot at the corner of his lip, where white streaks its way down his chin and throat. Jesse’s traitorous cock throbs. “You will not apologise,” Hanzo warns. “And you will not deny me the pleasure of doing this again.”

 

* * *

 

 

He’s rutting down on him heavily, cock to cock and nothing else, rough almost to the point of chafing. He leans down to worship the canvas of his body, the book written in scars and absences and ink and dimples, the book he has read a thousand times from cover to cover and has not finished reading at all. He runs his lips against Hanzo’s clavicle, down to his nipple, that part of him always put on (titillating) display to slowly drive him mad, and sucks it long and hard until it is sore and Hanzo is pushing at his head for reprieve. He blows across the nub coolly to watch Hanzo’s shudder, runs his mouth along the jut of his chin and kisses the hollow of his neck, admires its long, sharp arch as Hanzo tilts his head back into the pillow, bares it to him: an offering, a plea.

Jesse trails his metal hand up his torso and curves it around Hanzo’s throat, just resting it there, a smooth and solid weight. He watches Hanzo’s pupils dilate, hears his soft gasp of arousal. “You want?”

“Please,” Hanzo whispers, and he can hear his pulse tremble against his hand.

Jesse presses harder into his hips with his own, rubbing slowly, unforgivingly, and god the pressure must be hurting him but all Hanzo does is push up against him unabashedly for more. He holds down those sculpted hips with his own, pins Hanzo’s wrists above his head with his flesh hand and gently amps the pressure on his neck with the other. He watches in fascination as the flush creeps up Hanzo’s cheeks, as the bobbing apple of his throat warms beneath the metal, and he squeezes down harder and harder, steadily increasing the pace and force of his thrusts while tightening his mechanical hand. Hanzo’s entire face is burning red-almost-purple, and his chest is heaving, his mouth open in a permanent desperate gasp as he fights for the breath that Jesse denies him. Sweet fuck, the sight of his hand on that throat, gripping so hard it will no doubt leave a bruise Hanzo will have to cover with one of his precious scarves, what it does to Jesse.

Hanzo is floundering for air now, wheezing and straining against his hand, and yet his hips are rolling frantically up into Jesse’s own, cock sodden where it is sandwiched between their stomachs. His eyes are glassy, the corners bubbling with the first tears of exertion, lashes rimmed with wet. Jesse kisses his forehead. “You’ll stay like this for as long as I tell you to,” he says, trying to keep his voice cool and even but probably sounding as strangled as Hanzo himself. “And what I’m tellin’ you is, you don’t get to breathe till you come. Just like this, just from me rubbin’ against you.”

Hanzo chokes at that, eyes widening and then squeezing shut, and his thrusts become frenzied and uncoordinated, single-mindedly racing towards orgasm. He spills heavily against Jesse and Jesse releases his neck, lets him suck in great lungfuls of air, soothes him with soft kisses and murmurs of praise and sweet nothings against his skin, brushing his hands over that labouring chest. Hanzo wraps an arm around Jesse’s back, pants quieting as he regains his composure. He idles a hand up to his own neck, tracing the angry yellowing bruise Jesse’s hand has left there with tentative fingers. He turns and presses a hard kiss onto Jesse’s cheek, tangles his fingers into Jesse’s hair and slips his tongue into his mouth, climbing down his throat.

Jesse moans into the kiss, pulls away appreciably breathless himself. “Well, that’s one way to show your appreciation.”  

Hanzo’s eyes are hooded, fixed on nothing but him. “I am not done yet,” he answers throatily.


	9. PDA

The jet is decelerating on to its makeshift landing strip, smooth and noiseless. There is no turbulence to jolt them into the anticipatory vigilance of long-trained soldiers, no overhanging thunderstorm to set the scene for chaos. Winston is silent over the comms and Lena clears her throat once or twice but is otherwise mute, her anxiety riding the frantic tapping of her foot, the quick side-eyes and wan smiles she aims at Hanzo, who sits as though he is sculpted, his jaw set in stone, his lips pressed into their trademark grim line, gaze fixed out the window on the grit and crumbling stone of the derelict city. There is only the tense, bated breath of the unknown, the noiseless stares of ten thousand casualties (ten thousand failures) following them as they venture into the next objective, the next battlefield.

They are wordless still when they unbuckle and leave the plane. Fareeha’s words ring sharp and clear in each of their minds; _Beware the desert or it will consume you_. Hanzo’s eyes are fixed into the distance as they step into the soft hot sand, the brewing dust storm, the barren hazy world of yellow. He steps closer to Jesse, lifting a hand to straighten the strap of his quiver and pulling the sleeve of his kimono over his tattooed arm, shielding it from the abrasive weather. His hand hesitates on its way down, and he brushes his fingers with careful deliberation against Jesse’s own, just the backs of his roughened knuckles, just for a moment, and looks up at him with clear, unflinching eyes.

And that, that is the equivalent of – no, it is more, to Jesse, than – a hundred soul-stealing kisses, it is _Stay safe_ and _Come back to me_ and _Don’t leave me_ all in the one dry-skinned graze and one gimlet-eyed plea, it is the kiss to his forehead Hanzo presses in the mornings when he pretends to think Jesse is deep asleep and the tilt of his head into the crook of Jesse’s neck on the cold nights (every night); it is an electric tingle that shoots up Jesses own arm and wraps around his chest, a shackle binding him to Hanzo, a lover’s promise, a dragon’s claim.

He nudges that long, weathered palm around until it’s facing his own, steeples his fingers through Hanzo’s and squeezes, intimate as the scrape of sandpaper. He returns the intense stare, watching the many conflicted emotions as they dart across that face (and how terribly expressive he has learnt it can be) and the deep amber pools of his eyes. _We’ll get through this; we always do_ , he says with the stroke of his thumb against the tender skin webbing Hanzo’s fingers. _Promise me the same_ , he says with the scrutiny in his eyes as he memorises again the minute scar at Hanzo’s temple, the arch of his patrician nose, the tense slash of that gorgeous mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

They’re returning from an operation in Darwin, filthy and haggard, Jesse from a scouting assignment and Hanzo from yet another assassination – and the knowledge that Jack is more than happy to hand those out left and right now, it brings an ugly, unrepentant, savage snarl to Jesse’s face, _Would you look at that, Gabe? Aren’t you pleased with what you’ve done to him, Gabe?_ – and as usual there is nothing but the irritating scrape of silence cloaking them, insulating the tiny humid cabin. It’s in moments like these that Jesse feels the bitter cynic wedged deep between the walls and cushions of his mind unleash, eating away at him second by second. He’d barely managed to gather the intel he’d been hunting for, and he’d almost been discovered while he was at it, and in that last encounter he’d nearly lost his eyes to those bug-faced bastards from Talon, who seemed to be lurking in every corner, infiltrating every shadow. What was even the point, they were all soldered in with steel on this rollercoaster ride to hell.

Hanzo has been giving him that carefully blank, carefully intent look of his for some time now, the one that means he is waiting for Jesse to do something incredibly stupid and silently judging him for it. It never fails to irk him; time has not, it seems, worn down – or up, as it were – Hanzo’s opinion of Jesse’s intelligence. Jesse is about to snap at him for it, is almost considering reaching into the chiller for a beer and upending it onto that perfect hair with that perfect glimmering tie, not a strand out of place, when Hanzo wordlessly lifts the armrest dividing their seats and shifts closer to him, so close Jesse can feel the heat of his body through his serape and body armour, so close that their shoulders are pressed together. A hand is squeezing his thigh, surely a gesture meant to ground and comfort him but succeeding only in triggering the unbuffered free fall of arousal. Hanzo is resolutely not looking at him, is instead inspecting the decorations embossed onto his bow for nicks and scratches. Jesse wants to drag him to their microscopic washroom and kiss the impassivity off his face, he wants Hanzo flushed and groaning as he presses Jesse to the wall and takes him the way he _needs_ to be taken.

Well, perhaps the gesture is somewhat successful, though now Jesse has a painful erection to deal with, and Hanzo’s hand is only getting warmer against his thigh, only shifting higher, the smirk tucked into the corner of his mouth only twitching harder.

 

* * *

 

 

Rikimaru Ramen is not the classiest place Jesse has had the pleasure of dining at, but it is close enough to Shimada Castle that no one will question the presence of two gaunt, eccentrically dressed men, and unfrequented enough that few will notice at all. Dusk is rolling across the sky to settle over the flickering rainbow lights and glass panels of the city, and the TV in the corner is flashing its gaudy colours across the tables of the eatery, the most furtively tucked away of which Jesse sits at, slurping his meal from its soup-thinned bowl. At the counter, a chef is idly polishing the washed cutlery, hands moving to the rhythm of raindrops drizzling outside.

Hanzo has already finished his meal neatly and efficiently. His splintered one-time-use chopsticks are pointlessly balanced atop the empty bowl, the reflexive etiquette bred into him from the cradle as inseparable from him as his bow or the slight furrow of his brows. He sits straight-backed and contemplative, the complete antithesis to Jesse’s own huddled slouch and weary drooping lids, despite being as burdened as he. As with everything else, Hanzo wears fatigue with elegance.

When Jesse rises from his dinner, reaching down from his wallet, Hanzo makes a non-negotiable gesture with his fingers, a look of mild incredulity crossing his face. “It is payed for,” he explains, raising his eyebrows at Jesse’s huff. “Surely you are not complaining. I am more than capable of it; will you not allow me to indulge you even once?”

Jesse laughs wryly. “What, with cold ramen and this, uh, romantic ambiance on a cold, rainy evenin'? Don’t let me hold you back.”

Hanzo snorts and reaches for a napkin from their table. He steps forward, and Jesse braces himself for a swat across the back of his head, but what Hanzo does next is lean in and wipe at the corner of Jesse’s mouth, removing an oily smear and a stray speck of thyme. Up this close Jesse can see the faint rosy dust across those high arching cheekbones, the one that tells him Hanzo is sated and content, and he can see each distinct eyelash that forms a sooty frame across those stunning eyes, and he can smell the wheaty gingery smell of soup on his hot breath, taste the salt on his wet lips.

“Forgive me,” Hanzo murmurs. “I was under the impression this would meet your standards for romance. Perhaps when we are alone,” and he slides his eyes towards the chef, who is still transfixed by his glassware, and back, gleaming with amusement and something lewder, something that curls warm and silky in Jesse’s stomach, “you will allow me to rectify that.”


	10. Comfort

He wakes to Jesse’s tossing and turning, his quiet grunts and full-bodied twitches as he curls into himself, away from another of his gruelling nightmares. In all fairness, it is not so much Jesse’s motion that is disruptive as it is Hanzo being a light sleeper. He sits up soundlessly, flicks on the switch of their bedside lamp and rummages through the third drawer for a water bottle. Next to him, Jesse has begun shuddering incessantly and cold sweat has broken out on his forehead. His hair is a damp, tangled mess and his mouth is flat from how he must be gritting his teeth.

It takes every ounce of control ingrained into Hanzo from when he could toddle to not reach over and grasp that sun-browned shoulder, to not nudge his lover awake and free him from the shadowy depths of his mind and soothe him. He knows better than to do so now, knows that what Jesse needs is not Hanzo’s unyielding embrace or Hanzo’s lips tracing the powerful curve of his spine or Hanzo’s soft clucking hushes, but the knowledge that he can relive his fears independently time and time again, and the space to digest that. He has never been a man of impulsive action, but Jesse unfailingly woos out the suppressed child in him, the impassioned and reckless one, and the admission that the he could tear his heart out by its roots and handfeed it morsel by bloody morsel to the beautiful savage it has chosen and it would still not ease the weight of Jesse’s suffering – it is acid-laced whiplash to him.

He digs his nails into his palm and licks his lower lip. He swallows the rage bubbling under his skin, which demands he peel the skin and muscle off the bones of Jesse’s tormentors by hand, slowly and agonisingly, that he drain them of their blood and vomit, that he bathe their mangled corpses in it. He exhales heavily through his nose, and looks down to see Jesse awake, the covers pulled tightly up to his chin, looking up at him through eyes so haunted they may as well be gouged into his face with a ladle.

“Errything ‘kay?” he asks, because he is Jesse, and of course he would ask Hanzo if he is alright when _he_ is the one who has been reliving the horrors of his past, the anxieties of his future. Hanzo cannot even find it in himself to ignore the question, he is so overwhelmed by the surge of love and anguish that quakes through him.

“Yes. Would you…like some water?”

Jesse smiles a sleep-softened smile at him (cracked lips notwithstanding). “’Thanks, darlin’, that’d be dandy.”

Hanzo unscrews the cap of the water bottle and hands it to him, watching for any further signs of distress as Jesse leans up on his mechanical elbow and takes a swig. He is staring pensively at the label on the bottle, as though the dim lamplight has suddenly alerted him to some minute detail he has never noticed before, and he sips from it again, chewing on his lips – a filthy habit Hanzo has failed to beat out of him – before he says the thing Hanzo has been waiting for.

“I’m gonna go for a smoke.”

“Take your time. I will be awake.”

Jesse winces and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry ‘bout that.”

“You are not to blame.”

His lover nods and rolls over, slipping out of the room in his bare chest and sweat-soaked pants and padding down the hallway to their balcony. When a good fifteen minutes have passed and he has not returned, Hanzo gathers a shawl from Jesse’s cluttered half of the wardrobe and follows.

Jesse is hunched over the railing, staring out at the periwinkle blue expanse of pre-dawn sky, starless and cloud-embroidered to the horizon. Weak moonlight highlights the freckles mapping his broad back and strong shoulders, the shoulders that carry the weight of the world alongside Hanzo day after day, the shoulders that are naked and goose-pimpled because of the chill westerly wind and Jesse’s impenitent foolishness. Hanzo drapes the shawl over Jesse and stands beside him. He smells thickly of tobacco and pine.

Hanzo places a hand over Jesse’s and feels the discreet trembling there gradually cease. When they finally return to bed, Jesse slips his arms around Hanzo’s waist and nuzzles into the dip between his shoulder blades, and Hanzo allows it (welcomes it, cherishes it).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Apples for being a wellspring of inspiration and a sounding board for my ridiculous attempts at dialogue. Thanks also to my sister, who is the best beta reader in the world; no ifs and buts apply.


	11. Necking

It’s one of those rare mornings when Jesse is up before Hanzo, though technically it doesn’t count because Hanzo actually returned home only two and a half hours ago, stinking of gutters and petrol and fatty street food, and then he bathed and promptly curled into their bed, slipping his arms around Jesse’s stomach and tucking his chin over his shoulder.

Bands of pinkish orange light are sliding across the room through the blinds, tie-dying the flash of honey-glazed shoulder that peeks out of Hanzo’s yukata, accentuating the natural rosiness that lurks beneath. No doubt Hanzo is in fact already awake, stirred by the slightest brush of sunshine against skin – though the crescents of his lashes, still and deep-set against prominent cheekbones, would suggest otherwise. Jesse hears the waiting in his quiet breaths, carefully measured and sleep-heavy. He leans down and drops a smile onto Hanzo’s temple, a peck onto his cheek, a kiss onto supple lips. Hanzo is motionless for the first two; at the third he hums low in his throat and tilts his chin upwards, the finely trimmed hairs there a downy contrast to the coarse scruff of Jesse’s own beard.

An arm snakes up from the blankets and curls around Jesse’s neck to tug him closer as Hanzo licks against his teeth and pushes in, stale morning breath and all – not that Jesse’s complaining, sleep-addled demanding Hanzo is the sexiest Hanzo – to steal his air. His eyes are still closed, but he is undeniably awake now, teasing the roof of Jesse’s mouth with purpose, wet and hot, and his arms and elbows are shoving insistently against Jesse’s chest; he’s using the thigh he’s managed to wedge between Jesse’s legs for leverage as he half-wrestles them over and kisses him, the grip at the back of Jesse’s neck vice-like, his other hand petting at the thick whorls of hair over Jesse’s torso.

“Nnngh,” Jesse groans into Hanzo’s mouth, and he feels Hanzo’s morning wood throb against his stomach at the encouragement. Hanzo breaks free, lips swollen and spit-slick and hungry-red, and he is finally panting. He rests his forehead against Jesse’s, schooling his breaths. His eyes as they hold Jesse’s own are warm deep pools, spattered with a rich pelt of autumn leaves.

“Mornin’,” he manages after a half minute. He slides his hands up his back to grasp at those powerful, thick shoulders and ducks his head, nuzzling affectionately against the point of Hanzo’s nose, the smooth, golden length of his throat. The thin, all-too-familiar waft of incense and worn leather and green tea is soaked into the skin below his ear and at the hinge of his chiselled jaw, strung together by the piquant musk of Hanzo’s masculinity, and it makes Jesse’s knees quiver in awe and desire.

The arm around his neck moves upwards and fingers rake through his bushy tangled mane. Jesse presses his bruised lips to Hanzo’s pulse, feeling his low rumble of satisfaction as he begins rocking lazily, unhurriedly, against him.

“Mmmh,” Hanzo murmurs, languid and raspy. “Good morning.” And wow, someone is very pleased today, because Hanzo is tipping his head back, yanking at Jesse’s hair for more attention above when Jesse attempts to move downwards and undo the sash of his yukata. He exhales heavily through his nose. Okay, so, it’s going to be one of those mornings; they’re both going to come in their underwear just like this, the dark curtain of Hanzo’s silver-streaked hair staticky and rippling over his shoulders, Jesse’s own a rat’s nest and probably missing a few strands by the time they’re done, and the thought makes him buck up harder against Hanzo and sink his teeth into the strain of that corded neck, it makes him rub his own whiskered throat against the dragon purring-growling-gasping there, it makes him roll them over so he is on top once again, just for the satisfaction of seeing Hanzo’s teeth gritted into a furious snarl, a flush blooming across his slender, fine-boned face, the hollows of his cheeks; Hanzo is looking up at him with fire in his eyes, daring him to take him over the edge, daring him to stoke the fire he has no hope of controlling, and Jesse can’t help it, he lives off the thrill of walking the edge of sanity, of knocking at death’s door like an imprudent child and then sneaking off behind a tree. His palm is down between them in seconds, pressing hard against Hanzo, and he’s returning that savage grin with one of his own, delirious with the thrum of pleasure and power and greed as he feels the wet spurt against soft cloth, and when he looks back up at Hanzo it’s to see a beast fully roused to the call of his own, primed to strike and devour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That escalated rather quickly.
> 
> Thanks to the mchanzo discord for their quality assistance with research for this chapter. As it turns out, kissing is a somewhat convoluted process. Thanks especially to PyrophobicDragon, NewLakituPls, Lady_Cinna and TheNights here on the Archive for helping me headcanon and figure out the mechanics of smushing two faces together. You're the best!


	12. Masturbating

It’s humid. The open windows usher in the sticky warmth and leaden moonlight. He can smell the fat and juices hissing in the burger stall below as the late-night crowd ( _ungodly_ ) makes its brisk way through the narrow, rickety streets, puddles from the light shower this afternoon flickering under the yellow-purple streetlamps. Above him, the ceiling fan drones without urgency, tracing lazy, oblique circles. _Whirr-whirr-whirr-squeak, whirr-whirr-whirr-squeak_. Beneath him, the sheets are tacky with sweat and spilt beer. Hanzo is coming home tonight. Hanzo is coming home tonight. Hanzo is coming home tonight.

There are a number of things Jesse could be thinking about right now instead of the mantra his mind has tripped itself into reverberating. He could think about how Hanzo hasn’t sent him the standard _Will return soon_ , even though it’s a week past the day he was scheduled to be done tying up (more) loose ends in Hanamura. He could think about the fact that Hanzo had still been limping from that last blow to his left leg, just above the kneecap, just above where flesh meets nichrome and wiring, when he had taken the call – though he hid it well. He could think about Genji’s confusion when he had asked him about his brother’s whereabouts, followed by his obligatory optimism, laced with doubt as it was, and about Angela’s frown of concern when she had overheard their conversation. _Jesse, you are sure Hanzo took the medication with him? I wouldn’t like to see my efforts undone._  

Fuck. There’s a reason why Jesse takes comfort in his solitude, and this is it. He has lost too much, disowned too many brothers and sisters and father-figures and mother-figures, and on the good days he can pretend he’s done a good job of coming to terms with it, but it’s on the nights like this he realises he really hasn’t; that the heart of a lonely yearning child still beats inside his thirty-seven-year-old body, that he’s clung on to his dream of redemption and happily-ever-after with his adopted family (the pulse in his veins, the neurons in his fingertips), and ignoring it and running away from it is how he has convinced himself he is above it all, above the chaos and fear and pain and loss that come with love.

He can carry the weight of his anxieties so long as he doesn’t see them. He deserves to carry them, and locking them away to slowly unpack them in the cramped flashes-spaces between daybreak and nightfall, between company and solitude – it certainly works better than whatever comforts Angela or Ana or even Jack, in his own reserved, stilted way (Jack, who has lost so much, who is hunted by day and haunted by night, who is a shell of the man he was, who is barely a man and mostly a monster now) could offer. They’ve all got corpses rotting in their closets, they’re all repressing the parts of them that are shattered into itty-bitty pieces, holding down the fort, so to speak, and would you look at that, they’re even having a go at saving the world while they’re at it. It’s a good life.

So he thinks, instead, when he realises the mantra’s quietened in favour of taking a south, of the things that _do_ comfort him. He thinks of the soft rustle of silk as Hanzo unties his hair before bed and untangles it, first with nimble fingers and then with his cherished pearl comb; of the soothing fragrance of herbs and sweet smoke steeped into their pillows; of a warm, low voice murmuring ancient lore and boyhood memories and inane wonderings and bizarre humour and filthy secrets alike into his ear; of long, sinewy arms draping across his chest in the depths of sleep; and if not, then of strong, scarred hands brushing down his chest on the clammy, sleepless nights like this; of nails scraping down the hair on his belly, teasing at his navel, tugging at the curls below…

God, but it’s been too long. Jesse’s libido is not what it used to be at twenty; should not be and has not been for the years he spent traveling alone, and yet his desire for this man burns a mere hairsbreadth under his skin, always ready to ignite, always ready to consume him. He wants too much, and he wants too badly, and he has stubbornly refused to give in to it for the last few days, wanting to surprise Hanzo, needing to please him, but it will be denied no more. The heat and stagnancy of the night air is not helping one bit. He groans in frustration, shimmies out of his sleeping pants as best he can whilst laying down and wraps a hand around his length, gasping at the relief, relishing the slick coating his fingers. He wastes no time fucking into his own fist. There will be no coyness tonight, no slow strokes or thumbing the head (and it’s Hanzo who’s made him really appreciate that in the first place, Hanzo who forces him to _stop_ and _tease yourself_ ), he wants rough and scraping and wet and now. His hips are jerking without rhythm, his grip tight and his motions sloppy. When he comes there’s blood leaking from his lips because the windows are open and the neighbours are awake, and there’s come spattering onto his abdomen, already feeling pasty and disgusting and smelly because, well, lovely weather tonight. He grimaces and dabs it off with a corner of the sheets, kicking himself out of the tangle he’s made of them. At least he’s got it out of his system.

(An hour and some later he still hasn’t: he’s grunting face-down into pillows, two barely-lubed fingers thrust up his ass, feeling raw and full and oversensitive because it really has been too long and he really doesn’t want it any other way, and what would Hanzo say if he were to walk in on him, would he call him _lewd_ and _wanton_ and _shameless_ and deny him for the rest of the night, or would he say _beautiful, this is how you should always be, this is what you were made to do, come_. Of course, it’s just his luck that Hanzo _does_ return to find him in that position, ass in the air and panting-writhing-coming at the thought of being fucked into the mattress, and what Hanzo actually ends up doing is giving him a tired quirk of his lips, wiping him clean with a wet towel and kissing him on his brow and nose and palm and lips, and then falling asleep in his arms.)


	13. Power Bottoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess it’s established at this point that I won’t be maintaining a regular update schedule? Teehee XP.
> 
> On the plus side, I’ve got two more chapters to go, and one of them is (thankfully) not porn. There’s only so much sex I can write while I’m pretending at literary merit. 

Jesse tests the strength of the obi corded around his wrists. The silk is cool and smooth against his skin and just taut enough that he can feel its bite; that, after they are done, there will be a pleasant soreness edging the impressions left there.

The bed, soft and compressed from the regular burden of their heavy, unforgiving bodies, dips as Hanzo crawls over to Jesse, lube in hand. He perches on Jesse’s bare thighs, knees bracketing his hips. He shifts until he is settled into a comfortable position (as comfortable as he can be sitting around the unyielding width of Jesse’s bristly legs, with his own thighs spread so far apart). Every small movement flutters the wash-softened cotton of his robe against Jesse’s balls, sensitised to touch by the cool air – and, well, he’s shaved there this morning, as he’s taken a habit of doing since he realised Hanzo’s unabashed appreciation for what he has to offer there. A soft groan escapes his lips. Hanzo looks up at him from where he slipping loose the knot of his sash. Jesse grins as roguishly as he dares.

“Don’t mind me, babe, you just make yourself comfortable.”

Hanzo smirks at that, gives a deliberate roll of his hips, and Jesse feels his sac tighten, his cock rising with each brush of cloth against it.

“With pleasure,” he says, and it’s a crime what it does to Jesse to hear that word purr out of Hanzo’s mouth, lingering at the l, caressing the s. The robe slips off Hanzo’s broad ( _broad_ ) shoulders. Jesse watches as his arms emerge from the draping, faded swathes of cloth, smooth and long and snake-like when they wrap around Jesse’s back or his shoulders or sometimes his neck. Now, there is an almost imperceptible blue glow underlining the swirls and scales of his tattoo. The golden embellishments gleam unnaturally. Jesse sees the dragons’ fire in Hanzo’s eyes, flaring with barely suppressed savagery. He felt it in the bruises Hanzo had left all over his neck, his chest, into his lips (and the blood there is leaking still into his mouth, painting it a messy-wet-red; yes, he knows that the sight serves only to egg Hanzo on, that his arched throat and the desperate thrusts of his hips only stoke the dragons’ hunger, and he wants Hanzo to know that _he fucking loves it_ ). He sees its hunger in Hanzo’s mouth, slashed into a crooked grin, teeth bared, as he unscrews the bottlecap and pours the lube into his hand. He looks like he’s ready to eat Jesse alive. Jesse knows he will feel the burn of this claiming in his bones for a good week.

Hanzo does not take the time to warm the gel between his hands as he usually does. He pays little mind to Jesse’s comfort – he pays little mind to Jesse at all. Right now, Jesse is a body to be used, a possession to be marked and enjoyed. (It’s taken them so long to get to this point, so many years of hurt and silence and misdirected guilt and failures, but good god has it been worth it.) The lube is smeared callously over Jesse’s dick, hard already at his rampant thoughts and the unbelievable sight that is Hanzo with his hair down, shamelessly naked and revelling in his power and desire atop of Jesse, _taking what he wants_. Hanzo’s hand is callused from archery, his fingers strong and agile, and it’s always made fucking his hand so, so good for Jesse. Hanzo executes perfect control over the movement of his hand as it slides up and down Jesse’s cock, slippery wet and noisy, tracing under the fat blushing tip with a blunt nail, knuckles briefly kneading at his balls. Once he’s deemed it hard enough, and presumably wet enough (though there have been times like this when Hanzo’s demanded he be taken near-dry and relished it with a fervour bordering on madness and tears), he lifts his hips and crouches into a more satisfying position, and then promptly seats himself on Jesse’s cock in one long, easy movement.

Fuuuuck.

Of-fucking-course he’d decided to prepare himself in the shower without Jesse being there to worship his ass like it deserves to be, or to watch that spectacular show, and no doubt he’s been doing it for a while, if the warmth and wetness sheathing him are anything to go by. The playful glint in Hanzo’s eyes says he knows why Jesse is pouting. He clenches around him.

“ _Ahh_ ,” Jesse gasps. He squeezes his eyes shut. Too much, it’s too much. He bites down into his lip, spilling blood anew. The salt-and-copper taste helps him ground himself. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. Hanzo is sitting perfectly still, head cocked to the side, a small, private smile of endearment washed across his face as he observes Jesse. Jesse returns the smile.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he goads.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Hanzo replies, and then he’s spreading his legs wider apart, leaning back to grip Jesse’s calves and knees as he begins thrusting up and down in easy, unrestrained motion. He’s moving faster and harder with each fall, grinding and rocking and clenching each time he is seated to scratch that deeper itch, and when he rises and Jesse looks down – what a sight, what a filthy-wet-messy sight, lube and slick and pink and the obscenity of Jesse’s thick cock disappearing over and over into Hanzo’s hot, shameless body, his rim stretched tight and puffy around the girth, tight enough that the pleasure is fringed by pain, desperate and demanding and with a single-minded focus on satiation.

Jesse forces his eyes upward. Hanzo’s head is tilted back so Jesse cannot see most of his face. A thin trail of saliva is dripping down his beard and chin. His hair is bouncing with him, the shorter bangs plastered to his skin with the sweat of exertion. He’s silent for the most part, lost in the pleasure abusing his nerve endings, his cock flushed and needy and shiny with pre, bobbing against the ridiculous flex of his abdomen as he rides Jesse.

It’s unbearable, is what it is. Jesse’s gasps have long dissolved into a continuous stream of throaty moans. His hips are bucking up of their own accord into Hanzo, forceful enough to bruise. When he is close, his mindless rhythm stutters.

“Not yet,” Hanzo hisses, and his fingers tighten around his legs, digging in deep and sharp.

Jesse whines. “Sweetheart you’re killin’ me,” he breathes.

Hanzo grins at him, heartbreakingly young and exultant and flushed. “Alright,” he concedes. “But I will finish on your face, then.”

Jesse swallows his tongue and comes right there in Hanzo’s ass. He fucks through his own come in the greedy jerks of aftershock. Hanzo looks like he doesn’t know whether to be smug or chagrined.


	14. TLC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those reference kits are a fanfic writer’s best friend.
> 
> Also if anyone has headcanons or fic bunnies they’d like to discuss, please don’t hesitate to drop them into my inbox over on [tumblr](http://www.bashful-infidel.tumblr.com)! My imagination is somewhat lacking, so I make do with peeping in on others’.

Sleep eludes Hanzo tonight. Sleep is a fickle lover on any night: the muffled screams and angry beating fists of his nightmares rip past his rice-paper control and predictably, rest bids him farewell. But Hanzo has already meditated and taken his pills, and sleep still eludes him.

He reflects that he has always slept better in the presence of a warm and trusted other, an other to whom he could entrust his vulnerability and whose vulnerability could be entrusted to him. When they were boys, Genji and he would share a room at night, their futons laid side by side and their legs brushing and Genji grinning as he spoke of adventure and glory and castles in the sky, and Hanzo smiling with warm drowsy indulgence.

(And when they were even younger, their pinkies would be twined together because sometimes Genji dreamt about drowning in shadows and sometimes Hanzo dreamt about his stomach dropping off a cliff.)

That had, of course, changed as they matured, and with the physical distancing had come the detachment that split their world in two (that split his heart in two) – that Hanzo, even now with Genji’s cold metal hand on his shoulder and Genji’s cold green biolights to guide his way, is not sure has been mended.

Hanzo has heard Morrison recite “old habits die hard” like a lifeline. On some days he says it with a bittersweet fondness and on some days he says it with regret and on some days with abrasive self-loathing, but he says it always. Jesse had once remarked (in private) that Jack has never been good at letting things go, and his instinct and muscle memory cling to his past regardless his mind’s desire to escape it.

He sees truth in Morrison’s words. Hanzo had expected that years spent alienating himself from the human life he had squandered so horrifically (that he had no claim to any longer), sleeping in the cradle of rough-skinned trees and pockmarks-in-mountains, would have beaten that softness out of him. But Jesse has guilelessly embraced him with unrelenting arms and an unyielding chest and legs that wrap around his halfway through the night as though in mimicry of the dragons, and Hanzo has allowed himself to become complacent.

He tucks the blankets under his chin and pulls them over his shoulder. The nights have become colder, and the bed – by far the smallest Hanzo has ever slept in – is a yawning expanse of ice in the absence of its other occupant. He stares sightlessly into the silhouettes composing the bedroom. He is awake enough that he hears the soft click of the front door as Jesse latches it shut an hour later, the quiet thump and strained hiss that follow as Jesse leans back against it.

Hanzo pads into the two-by-two square of tile they’ve dubbed a doorway. Jesse’s eyes are glazed and bloodshot and so, so empty when they flick up to him. “Hi,” he rasps. “Didn’t mean t’ wake you.”

Speech is clearly a labour. His words sound strangely wet and slurred and half-formed and not deliberately. He smells like death and Hanzo needs to _see_.

“May I turn the light on?” Hanzo manages.

Jesse hesitates. The seconds between the question mark and Jesse’s inhalation before responding are agony. He feels the ticks of the ancient wall clock like needles in his skin. He is torn between the urge to find Jesse’s assailants and peel the tendons off their joints, or to gather his lover into his arms and take all his hurts and burdens upon his own shoulders.

Jesse licks his lips. “Bathroom,” he says.

Hanzo obeys.

 

* * *

 

The bath is almost filled. Hanzo gently disinfects the last visible wound on Jesse’s body – a jagged slash on the side of his left thigh, left by a blunt knife in an amateur’s hand. He stitches it through with a sterilised needle, intent on the rhythmic push and pull of the thread, synchronous with Jesse’s breathing. He rinses the dried blood away and treats the inflamed skin with a salve he’s learnt to prepare and keep on hand, and he covers the wound with the Elastoplast dressing they keep in the cabinet. They will have time for tonics and pain relievers and boosters later. (And Jesse likes to feel the pain for a while after the mission anyway.)

Hanzo helps Jesse into the tub. Jesse’s bathing routine is different to his own, and had repulsed him at first, as all things foreign tend to. Time has taught Hanzo not to argue with the man’s preferences, because he is as stubborn as a mule but it is not as though he is unclean. Time has also taught him of Jesse’s own code of honour and pride. In fact, Hanzo is still learning it: it is a strange and malleable thing that allows the overgrown cub of a man to huddle into his chest and preen under his pampering. Hanzo had been taught to always have his hackles raised when offered care and comfort, because such things are gestures of pity. He is discovering otherwise.

Jesse’s eyes close as the steam engulfs his body and seeps into his tired bones. He reaches out a hand for Hanzo and Hanzo clasps it in his own. With his free hand, Hanzo untangles the grimy locks of Jesse’s hair. Jesse leans into the touch.

They remain silent as the water colours with the dirt and blood caked onto Jesse’s skin. Hanzo prays that the paleness of Jesse’s beautiful golden skin is only an exaggeration of the bleak white lights, and not of blood loss. He had deliberated on calling one of their medics to assess Jesse’s condition. Jesse had said, “No, ‘s not safe out t’night.”

Hanzo rubs nonsense circles into the ball of Jesse’s palm. “What happened?” he finally asks.

“Shot by a sniper,” Jesse rumbles. Yes, he’s seen the evidence of that, the wound slickly puckered and crudely healed using a health pack. “Pain slowed me down and one of the rats I’d missed took me by surprise.”

Hanzo nods. He reaches for a sponge and soaps it and begins to rub at Jesse’s shoulders. Clouds of reddish grime blot into the water. Jesse’s eyes are open and following the diffusion of the filth with a hollow rapture. His eyes flick to the prosthetic arm resting by the washbasin. Hanzo touches his elbow to shift his attention away.

“I will have it sent for repair and cleaning,” he soothes. “Think of nothing else now. You will finish bathing and then you will recover and rest. Someone will come by to see you in the morning. I will take care of your report.”

The weary smile that stretches across Jesse’s disgustingly unkempt face sparks a kernel of tenderness in Hanzo’s heart abloom. He drops the sponge into the water and hides the hot salty sting in his eyes with a kiss to the stump of Jesse’s left arm. Jesse sighs contentedly and pushes his relinquished hand into Hanzo’s hair, pulling it out of its workmanlike bun and letting it curl into the water, into the webbings between his fingers. They stay like that until Jesse threatens to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised I haven’t done this already? But to everyone who’s dropped by to give this project a read, thank you so much! This fic has come a lot farther than I’d expected for it, and it’s helped me to overcome a few of my own writerly inhibitions, which I’ve at least got the resolve to work on now. So really, thank you so, so much for the lovely and unexpected feedback I’ve received on this, and thanks to everyone on the mchanzo discord who has helped me with planning and feedback for the individual chapters.
> 
> There’s one more chapter left to go. Honestly I was debating between posting this as the last kink, or the next one, because I adore them both. I figured I should give you a break from all the sex, hence this one first :)


	15. Giving

He rouses to the insistent poke of something against his inner thigh. Jesse is curled into himself (and into Hanzo) and is clearly enjoying himself, if the unconscious tug of his smile and his soft open-mouthed breaths and his hardness are anything to go by. Though truthfully, there is no telling whether he is indeed asleep or not. Jesse’s sleeping-breaths are indiscernible from his waking -breaths, quiet and unobtrusive for a man of such gaudy presence, except when he snores.

The light flickering through the curtains is steely-blue. Well before his waking hour, then. Sleep will not come to him now, though his body is still too sluggish from yesterday’s exhaustive drill to be doing anything substantial just yet. His recent reading sits on the bedside table; perhaps he should continue with that. There is also that unfinished poetry piece he has promised Zenyatta – or rather, begrudgingly acquiesced to writing for Genji upon Zenyatta’s blandishment-and-something-about-catharsis. Hanzo does not think poetry will do much to mend the wound he’s gutted into their bond; it certainly did little for Genji in their youth, unless it was of the superfluous variety. Genji has said to him many times, and in many ways, that he has been forgiven. But nothing can fill the aching silences that stretch in between their carefully-polite-inane exchanges (or the harsher bursts of anger and hurt that neither can seem to contain), and nothing can soften the cool metallic edge to Genji’s voice – imaginary or otherwise – as his smile once softened his face.

“Stop thinkin’ so hard, I can hear the wheels turnin’,” Jesse mumbles from where his face is pressed into Hanzo’s forearm. His beard tickles the skin there as he squeezes the words out from sleep-sealed lips. The fact that he can manage an entire sentence suggests that he has been awake for some time.

Hanzo snorts and shifts to face Jesse. “At least my wheels turn,” he jibes. “Yours are so rusty they need to be oiled.”

“Mmm,” Jesse rumbles, not missing a beat. His eyes are open and glowing with mischief and he’s already manoeuvring his large frame over Hanzo’s. He notches himself in between Hanzo’s legs, which ease open to the familiar width of Jesse’s hips. “Speaking of oil. Not that being insulted isn’t sexy and all, but. I kinda need to get off.”

Hanzo’s eyes drop down to appreciate the evidence of that. Jesse’s cock is hard and poised a scant centimetre above his own navel. He watches it flush under the attention, watches Jesse’s muscles flex involuntarily. He wants to – he’s shameless to want what he wants.

“Hnn,” he agrees noncommittally, trailing a lustful hand across the straining shoulders above him, down the stretch of that hard, hairy torso, resting it on that ridiculously sculpted hip. He drags his eyes lazily up to watch Jesse wet his lips, a small flash of pink across plump glossy red. “We should do something about that,” he murmurs.

“Can I kiss you,” Jesse pleads. Hanzo feels the first bead of pre drool onto his stomach. He leans up in answer, and Jesse meets his lips hungrily with a soft rushing groan. He rests one forearm on the pillow beside Hanzo’s ear. The metal hand he is cupping around Hanzo’s cheek, tracing the jut of his cheekbone and the barely-there creases at the corner of his eye and tangling it in his loose silky hair. Hanzo lifts a hand and wraps it encouragingly around Jesse’s neck, and with the other he follows the powerful dip of his spine. He returns the kiss, warm and languorous.

Whatever Jesse was thinking of while he was pretending to sleep seems to have been quite provocative. Jesse’s tongue is relentless in Hanzo’s mouth, licking out the taste of sleep and planting his own sweet musk wherever it can. He rears back, only to nip at his bottom lip, at the corner of his mouth, before leaning in again, slow and deep. His eyes are hooded (intentionally) as they look into Hanzo’s, unblinking and bottomless. His hand alternatively tightens and loosens against his scalp, the cool scratch of metal inducing pleasant little jolts as they spur the blood underneath into a rush. Hanzo feels warmth flush through his body, against all odds, and not just because his breath is being stolen. He slides the hand on Jesse's back around to his front and pulls at a nipple, and Jesse relents with a hitched breath, lips bruised and slick and shiny with spit and a little string of it snapping between them as he rises, because Jesse likes to make a mess.

“What happened to getting off?” Hanzo manages. His other hand has dropped to Jesse’s chest now as well, where he palms and kneads the broad, lovely muscle.

“Thought I’d get you worked up too,” he grins.

“You’ll have to wait until night for that.”

“Painkillers?”

Hanzo nods and Jesse makes a face.

He chuckles. “You are welcome to use my body as you like now, Jesse.”

“I _like_ it when you come with me.”

“As do I. Jesse,” he says, more soberly, two fingers tipping Jesse’s face towards his. He thumbs away the thoughtful-concerned furrow of his brows and tweaks his nose. “Please. I am asking you.”

An eyebrow shoots up at that. (Hanzo thinks his cock straightens up a bit as well.) “Are you now.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Well,” Jesse says in that delicious drawl, “I’d hate to turn down such a pretty request.” And with that, he reaches his long (long) arm out for the bottle of oil they keep in the first drawer. When he’s retrieved it, he removes himself from between Hanzo’s legs and says, “Turn over.”

There’s an odd silence now as Hanzo shifts onto his stomach, breath bated and blood pounding hot in his cheeks. He positions himself so that his hips are slightly raised, in the way he knows ruins Jesse with its coyness. It’s like flipping a switch, at times like this. Jesse is always so excruciatingly polite, so sweet-natured and patient and considerate, a compliment or jest always read to tumble from his mouth, but there’s a quieter, rougher streak in him a mile wide, a part of him that wants to use and keep and maybe even hurt, a part of him that can revel in selfishness and dominance, that competes like the predator it is.

(Hanzo has always been drawn to power.)

The cool oil is dripped onto the hollow above his ass, trickled down his crack and onto his hole. It’s pleasant and lukewarm by the time it reaches his balls. Jesse spreads his cheeks apart and rubs at the slick stretch of skin there, dipping his thumb into the puckered ring. Hanzo hums as Jesse massages the flesh of his ass, hard enough to leave marks, and then Jesse’s climbing between his legs again to seat himself against his crack, to grip his hips and prop him up.

It begins slowly at first, Jesse dragging his cock against Hanzo, wet silk against wet silk, soft little pants escaping him. It’s only the underside of his cock sliding between Hanzo’s cheeks, but when Hanzo inadvertently moans at the thought that Jesse is _taking his pleasure_ from him like this, Jesse speeds up, his thrusts become longer and harder and the head of his cock rubs against his clenching hole; his fingers claw into Hanzo’s hips and he bends forward and bites Hanzo’s shoulder and tells him how fucking hot he is, how good he is to him, how beautiful and pliant and oh fuck, oh fuck, he’s coming, nnngh, followed by that throaty growl-purr of satiation and a sharp sting as his teeth sink into the joint between Hanzo’s neck and shoulder. Come splatters onto Hanzo’s ass and the top of his thighs, viscous and hot and _so much_.

For all his inertness, Hanzo is just as out of breath when he feels Jesse’s body go limp against his. He waits for a minute or two, until the he thinks the mush that orgasm turns Jesse’s brain into has somewhat clarified. “Jesse,” he says.

“Mmm.”

“Teeth,” he grimaces, and Jesse laugh and kisses and licks the indentations he’s made, strokes his lips soothingly across the inflamed skin over and over again.

“Thank you,” he breathes into Hanzo’s neck. “Thank you,” he presses into Hanzo’s forehead.

Hanzo cranes his neck and pulls Jesse down for a sweet kiss. “Much obliged,” he teases.

Jesse laughs again. “Stay here. I’ll grab a towel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s it. The End. Khalas. 
> 
> I saw [missdelish’s lovely drawing of Hanzo riding Jesse’s face](http://missdelish.tumblr.com/post/148560469216/thats-one-way-to-get-a-cowboy-to-shut-up-you) (nsfw) and I am honestly surprised that it didn’t occur to me as a kink for this fic? Shame on me.
> 
> Once again, thank you so very much to the lovely comments and encouragement I’ve received from the readers, thank you for your kudos and your support, thank you for taking the time to read through this casual experimental ficdump, and thank you for being such an inspiring fandom, with so much wonderful fic and art and hcs and discourse!

**Author's Note:**

> As per usual, let me know if there are any spelling errors and I will be happy to edit them out.


End file.
